I Know All Your Hiding Places
by windscryer
Summary: Dean would really prefer that Shawn wasn't a captive audience, but, well, as long as he's there... PYO  ASR  'Verse. No slash.


So, I think I keep saying this, but I really am almost done with that epic I promised all y'all. FINALLY. AFTER TWO YEARS. OY. I _never _thought it would take that long or I would have done things way differently. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS AS A TOKEN OF MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES. :(

None of these boys are mine. Not even the title is mine. I stole it from an 80's movie that I'm pretty sure Shawn, Dean, and Sam would all enjoy called _Monster In the Closet._

**TIMELINE MARKER:**

Psych: Middle of season two, though exact time frame is uncertain and mostly irrelevant.

Supernatural: Middle of season three and ditto.

* * *

It was his sixth time on an actual honest-to-rock-salt-shotgun hunt and Shawn was beginning to feel like he had the hang of this.

Speaking of shotguns, Dean had actually given him one this time. Shawn was doing his very best not to grin like a kid handed the keys to his dad's fully-restored beauty of a classic car. Mostly he was successful if Dean was looking his way. He didn't want the gun taken back after all and Dean was not entirely pleased to have Shawn with them—as usual. Sam saw him grinning but just shook his head and smiled a little himself. He probably knew _exactly_ what Shawn was feeling.

So far, things were going pretty okay. No obvious signs of any ghosts in residence for them, yet, but that was still their best bet.

As soon as Sam stepped into the hallway of the old high school and joined Dean and Shawn, the ghostly bear-trap was sprung. The lights exploded, leaving them in the dark. The temperature dropped so fast Shawn was tempted to pat down his arm and see if his clothes were wet from being drenched with ice water. Temptation proved resistible for once as his hand instead tightened on the shortened barrel of his shotgun.

And then everything froze.

Not, like, from the temperature. Just from, you know, the tension.

"Sam? Shawn?" Dean's voice was a whisper, like he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Seemed kind of pointless at this juncture, Shawn thought, because _obviously_ the ghost knew they were there.

"I'm here," Sam said. "Shawn?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a rush of air, pained and abrupt as it felt like a bowling ball hit him square in the abdomen and just kept going right along with those laws of motion. The "pins" weren't much more fun to hit, a clatter sounding as he felt long stripes of bruise being laid into his flesh by some kind of wooden or metal sticks. He held there for a moment, gasping for breath as the bowling ball seemed to fall away. Then something, a door presumably, slammed shut with such force—and such little space between itself and his nose—that he jerked his head back and gouged it on something nice and sharp behind him.

He hissed as the sounds of his name being shouted from the other side of the door came through, muffled but no less panicked and pissed off for all that. There was the requisite banging and kicking and yelling, but when Shawn tried to respond, he was, again, cut off. This time by an icy cold grip on his neck that choked him from the fear as much as the pressure.

An ethereal voice whispered in his ear, "_Bad boys must be punished. Bad boys do not get to play with their friends..._" and then it—and the hand—disappeared.

He sucked in a shaky breath and swallowed, wincing at the pain in the movement.

"DAMMIT, SHAWN, FUCKING ANSWER ME!" The doorknob rattled but refused to work properly. "FUCK!" Dean cursed and kicked the door again.

It took licking his lips too before he was able to speak. "I'm okay."

"Shh! Wait! Dean!" Sam chided, then, "Shawn?"

"I'm okay!" he repeated louder. He looked down, even though it was useless in the pitch-blackness. "Stuck," he clarified, "but okay."

And that was sort of a lie, yeah, but after six hunts Shawn knew that Dean really didn't need to know about the blood he could feel seeping down the back of his head. Or the way his wrist twinged when he tried to move it. Or the bruises on his back or the big one forming on his thigh from where the gun had hit it before being ripped away. Time enough to think about that when he was out of this broom closet or whatever the hell it was. Dean couldn't do more than worry and get pissed off anyway and that wasn't the most helpful thing he could do right now.

"We can't open the door," Dean said, jiggling the handle for emphasis. "Can you try from your side?"

"Yeah, one sec." Shawn swung his hand forward and bumped it on the door, wincing as he tried to pull his elbow back a little to give himself maneuvering room.

He'd just managed to get his elbow bent and his hand up when the sound of rushing wind sounded on the other side of the door and swirled under the crack near his feet. There was a blast of a shotgun and Dean cursed and then _Sam_ cursed and then they were both shouting, "SHAWN! _DOWN!"_

He was doing his best to curl up in a ball even as the thought ran through his mind that his space was sort of really limited in here. He was glad he'd found a way, though, when there was a massive splintering sound above his head and sharp pings of pain danced over his skin from flying chunks of wood. Another blast of a gun and a shriek of ghostly fury and the wind died down.

"SHAWN? FUCK! SHAWN, ANSWER ME _NOW!"_

Shawn coughed and tried to stand, only to bump his head on something.

"What the...?" he muttered and felt for the obstruction. "Oh G—" He choked on the second half of the profanity as his fingers danced over something heavy and metal and right where his freaking _stomach_ had been less than a minute ago.

If he hadn't ducked, he'd be dead right now, cut in half by— by he didn't even _know_ what.

"SHAWN! FUCKING— DAMMIT, SHAWN!" Another thump and more cursing and Shawn was shaken from his stupor.

"I'm okay!" He coughed, from dust or terror, he didn't know—probably both, conspiring to dry his throat together—and tried again after a few swallows. "DEAN! I'M OKAY!"

The ensuing quiet was enough to hear the almost breathed prayer of sincere gratitude.

"We're going to get you out of there, Shawn," Sam assured him. "Just hold on a second."

Shawn laughed softly, regretting it when it threatened to set off a coughing fit from tickling his throat, then shifted his weight so he was leaning back against the wall more. He hoped that wasn't a platitude because he was folded up into a tiny ball now and this was going to get painfully uncomfortable real fast.

Some wiggling of the object and cursing and heaving grunts from the other side of the door and Shawn grimaced.

Maybe not an intentional one, but it was now officially a platitude. He wasn't going to be going anywhere for a little while.

"Fuck. _Fuck!"_ Dean hissed. Then he sighed. A thump that was probably his head or hand hitting the door and he continued, louder now. "Shawn, Sammy and I can't get this thing out. We're going to have to go to the car and get some tools."

"What about the ghost?" Sam asked, voice lowered, but not enough to keep Shawn from overhearing.

_"Dammit!" _Another sigh. "Okay, _fine_. _Sam_ will be going to get some tools. I will be staying here to make sure Casper the Bitchy Ghost doesn't try to skewer you with anything else."

"Sounds like an awesome plan," Shawn said. "I love it. Let's get going on it, shall we? Like, now, if at all possible?"

"I'll be right back, Shawn," Sam called, then hurried away with long loping strides punctuated by heavy footsteps.

A thump higher up, then a scraping sound that gradually drew closer made Shawn's brow furrow until he heard Dean's voice come from right about his level.

"Why do I let you talk me into this? Every. Damn. _Time."_

"You don't," Shawn reassured him. "You let Sam talk you into this."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. And you do that on purpose because you know I can't resist those damn puppy eyes of his. You sneaky little bitch. What the hell kind of blackmail do you have on him anyway?"

Shawn laughed and let his head fall to the side to rest against the door. His knees were tucked up against his chest and one arm—the injured one, fortunately—was in front, wrapped around them. His right arm was trapped uncomfortably between his body and the door—and starting to go numb, actually. That couldn't be good.

"If I told you, it would be in violation of our deal and I'd never get to come on hunts again."

Dean snorted. "Like you're going to anyway. This is the last time, I fucking swear."

"If it makes you feel better to think so," Shawn said."

An incoherent sort of growl sounded, then, "I _don't_ think so, Shawn. I'm serious. No more hunting for you. Why the hell do you want to come anyway? You always get hurt and you're not nearly as stoic about that as me and Sammy. You _hate_ being hurt."

"Well yeah, dude. As does any sane person. You and Sam seem to have missed the memo, but pain freakin' hurts, man."

"Then why the hell do you want to keep coming along?" Dean demanded. "You have NEVER come on a hunt that didn't end with you in pain. Are you a fucking masochist or what? Because if so, you can get your kinks somewhere else, man. I am not getting involved in that crap, you freak."

Shawn huffed a laugh. "No, Dean, I'm not into S&M."

"Then what the fuck is it?"

A chill descended and Shawn silently thanked the ghost for choosing this very opportune moment to reappear. A single blast from the shotgun and Dean's snapped, "Go the fuck away, Casper. The adults are talking here," and the reprieve was over.

Oh well. It was a nice try anyway.

"Well?" Dean demanded as he refilled his shotgun's barrel.

"Well what?"

"Shawn," Dean warned.

It was Shawn's turn to sigh. "I don't know. It's not that my life is exactly boring back in Santa Barbara, what with the police work and being chased by criminals and almost killed on a regular basis and everything. It's just... Hunting is exciting."

"Oh hell no. _No_, Shawn, hunting is not some friggin' adrenaline rush or— or adventure vacation package. We are not your cheap thrills tour guides!"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "It's not like that, dude. I know it's not a game."

"Do you, Shawn? Do you? Because that stupid grin you've had on your face all night would tend to disagree with you."

Shawn scowled. And he thought he'd been doing so well in hiding it too.

"I know it's serious, Dean. I've seen what happens when a hunt goes bad, okay? I remember that—more than you do, if we're being completely honest here. And I don't see you guys as my own personal adventure tour guides or whatever. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"I don't know! I don't like being hurt, but I don't like seeing you guys hurt either! Maybe I really do want to help you—and, yeah, I know I'm not nearly experienced enough to really help much. But that's only going to change if I actually get some freaking _experience_. Which I can only do if I go on hunts."

Quiet descended and Shawn waited nervously for the response to his answer.

Until it stretched out long enough for the protests of his body to start making noises in his ears.

"Um," he said, "So, how long do you think it will be before Sam gets back? I can't get to my watch."

"About another five or ten minutes," Dean said. "And, Shawn, I appreciate the pure girliness of your answer, but I really would prefer you _didn't_ have experience. I told you that from day one. You're not Hunter material. And in this business if you can't hack it, something will hack you. Or just devour you whole. Or suck you dry. Or any one of a million other horrific ways to die."

The cold returned, but instead of a shotgun blast, there was a thud of Dean's head hitting the wall and choking sounds.

_"Bad boys don't get to play with toys,"_ the voice Shawn had heard before said. _"Bad boys don't get to play at all!"_

Then a thud further away as Dean, presumably, hit the far wall.

"Dean? Dean?"

Dammit.

Shawn tried to free his arm or wiggle around to where he could kick at the door, but neither one came close to working.

"Dean! If you're passed out, now would be a good time to wake up." A groan sounded, but nothing that was particularly close to an alert sort of noise.

And then the area immediately around Shawn got colder still.

He made an undignified squeak and tried to back further into the corner, but he was already pretty much filling up the space he had, so it didn't really do anything. When the icy hand touched his skin again, he jerked and whimpered, fear stealing over him like a shadow from a cloud bank rolling in to ruin his sunny day at the beach.

"Back off!" he tried to order the ghost. It might have worked too, if it hadn't come out more like a desperate plea.

_"Bad boys,"_ the voice said. _"Such bad little boys." _The hand touched his face and his foot lashed out, kicking the opposite wall with a loud thump.

Another groan, than a groggy, "Son of a bitch," reached Shawn's ears, but by now the hand was crushing his throat again and Shawn couldn't do much more than gasp and choke for air and feebly struggle against the confining space surrounding him.

"Shawn?" Dean called, after a few more choice curses. "Shawn?"

A gurgled noise that might have been Dean's name under other circumstances was all that he could get out, but Dean knew where he was—as evidenced by the fervent curse and the sounds of someone hurrying over to the closet door. The handle was jiggled again and the door shook from the efforts to open it, but to no avail.

"Fuck!" Dean cursed again, and Shawn was pretty sure he understood why. It was obvious the ghost was in here with him, but Dean couldn't shoot through the door with hitting Shawn.

That was the bad news.

The good news was that in probably another minute or so, Shawn wasn't going to care about being shot. He figured that was how long he had before he passed out and his leg feebly kicked once more in a reflexive attempt to fight his apparent fate.

"Dammit, Shawn!" Dean cursed and kicked the door. He punched it and that seemed to open the floodgates and had him whaling on the door so bad that Shawn was sort of surprised it didn't give way under the assault.

Shawn really wished things hadn't gone this way. And not just because he was about to die.

Just before the darkness seeped inside and stole his awareness along with his vision, Shawn heard a new voice join the conversation Dean was having about how much he disapproved of the management of things with any deity that might be listening.

"Dean! I got it! I got the crowbar!"

There was a half second of silence and then a brief warning of, "Shawn, cover your eyes if you can."

Then a thunk—accompanied by more cracking wood. A second crack from another tool—probably the axe they kept in the trunk—and then a third and the upper part of the door began to give way.

Shawn thought he might have sensed a brief flash of light as the voices got harder to understand, the lack of oxygen finally taking its toll and sucking him under, but he couldn't be sure.

Then something upset the ghost who vanished with a protesting roar.

Suddenly Shawn could breathe again. He inhaled a massive breath that nearly sent him back into the blackness with the rush of oxygen it brought with it, but he managed to hold into consciousness just a little longer and continued gulping air.

The wood above his head continued to splinter and crack as it was slowly torn part, then Dean reversed the crowbar and jammed it in between door and frame and gave a mighty heave. Sam added his weight and with a groaning protest and a pained crack it ripped away from the frame and popped open, taking whatever had skewered it along for the ride.

It was dragged away and then suddenly Shawn was being crowded by two Winchesters trying to replace the door at the same time. They grabbed at his clothes and tugged him out and up, patting him down and checking him over as they went.

He might have protested if 1. he was capable of speaking yet and 2. he was capable of supporting himself, but being crunched into that tiny closet, even if only for ten or fifteen minutes, was more than enough to numb and cramp up his limbs. Besides, he wanted to be sure he was okay and numbness didn't exactly give you a clear image of yourself.

When they finished frisking him and verifying he was okay, they helped him over to a wall to sit down and wait out the pins and needles.

"What the hell is the choking fetish?" Dean muttered, tilting Shawn's head side to side to get a better look at the blooming bruises on his neck. "Every damn thing we hunt wants to choke you and Sammy. Why?"

Shawn wanted to say something funny that would diffuse the tenseness of the moment, but speaking didn't really appeal to him right now.

Sam piped up instead with a, "We should probably get out of here before it comes back. We have a face now to go with the rest of the information. We should be able to figure out who it is at the library tomorrow and then salt and burn them tomorrow night."

"Good plan," Dean said. "I like this plan. Let's get the hell out of here then."

They hefted Shawn back to his feet and he appreciated that for a few seconds while he waited for the head rush to clear. They hobbled and limped their way to the door, Sam helping Shawn as Dean kept watch, shotgun at the ready.

It took a few more shots to escape the building completely, stepping out into the cool night air where the Impala waited under a gleaming coat of fresh rain.

As he was loaded into the back, then joined by Sam, Shawn thought to himself that even as much as he hated this part, the pain and the fussing that came with it, he couldn't deny that he was much happier to be the patient than the medic no matter what Dean said.

And Dean would just have to deal with that, because his opinion wasn't likely to change any time soon.

* * *

Review, please and thanks! :)


End file.
